


Strangely Warmed

by anonymous_yet_again



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christianity, Religion, united methodism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:07:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22887541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymous_yet_again/pseuds/anonymous_yet_again
Summary: In 1738, John Wesley, soon to found Methodism as a denomination, attended a meeting in London, and "felt [his] heart strangely warmed."  Sounds pretty miraculous to me.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 7





	Strangely Warmed

**Author's Note:**

> This is not only my first work in this fandom but my first ever (written out and published, anyway) fan fiction. So of course it involves weird niche religious information that I had to look up to be sure about, and that no one else will probably be interested in. But I thought I'd put it out there anyway. Not British, please excuse Americanisms by pretending that our immortal friends picked them up somehow on a quick visit in the centuries that America has existed. Also--I have read the book several times over, and have seen clips of the show on YouTube. So this is probably more Book!Omens, except that I took the show's timeline--and, let's be honest, Crowley will probably never have dark hair in my mental picture of him ever again.

Aziraphale always claimed that he knew exactly where each book in the shop was at all times, and that he was able at any time to lay hands on any one of them. This was probably true, but, Crowley reflected, it was only true because Aziraphale had the slight advantage of being an angel--or something very near one, anyway, after the world had failed spectacularly to end--and usually just miracled whichever book he wanted to read to himself. The shop itself, in its normal state, was generally slightly more unorganized than it needed to be to frustrate any present customers into giving up and leaving. None of this explained why Crowley was currently helping Aziraphale rearrange several shelves of books _by hand_ when they could have just done it miraculously; or, better yet, not done it at all and gone to feed the ducks again instead.

Well, to be completely honest, Crowley knew why he was helping Aziraphale. He just wasn’t sure why his enemy--colleague--friend was insisting on the activity in the first place. “If I have a sign up saying ‘closed to take stock,’” Aziraphale explained again, not for the first time, “then we need to look like we’re actually taking stock. And I’m still not certain I’ve catalogued all of the new books that Adam added.”

“We _don’t_ need to look like we’re taking stock if no one looks in,” said Crowley, and frowned at Aziraphale’s neat, leather-bound notebook where he was ostensibly doing his cataloguing. “Remember when I explained computers to you? When was it now, about _forty years ago_?”

“Mm,” said Aziraphale, finishing his quick flip through of yet another Bible. “Put these with the religious books, would you dear?”

Making the demon carry a stack of Bibles and various denominations’ hymnals through the shop in search of the religious section probably wasn’t Aziraphale’s revenge for all the griping that Crowley had been doing that morning, but as said demon peered over his sunglasses into yet another dead-end bookshelf with nothing obviously religious on it, he realized he wasn’t totally sure. He muttered wordlessly--actually, it was more like hissing--to himself as he swung around and tried the next shelf over. To his surprise, it actually seemed to be the right place. He plopped the stack on the floor and started haphazardly plucking books off of it and shoving them on the shelves in no particular order, but was distracted by an already full shelf of very similar-looking volumes--which was saying something, since he’d just carried thirty Bibles over.

“Angel!” called Crowley a few minutes later. When there was no immediate response, he shrugged and grabbed a few of the books off of the organized shelf, before ambling back to the center of the shop where Aziraphale was. Although he wanted answers, he wasn’t in a hurry to be handed more stacks of books.

Aziraphale was absorbed in a new-looking book, which seemed from the cover to be about sea level change in the eastern United States. Crowley snapped his fingers in between the angel’s face and the page until he had his attention. “Angel,” he said again, more quietly, “why do you have a whole shelf of Methodist Books of Discipline? And related volumes,” he added, realizing he’d grabbed at least one hymnal and a slim volume that he couldn’t place yet. “I’d be less surprised if you had as many Anglican ones, but just Methodist?”

To Crowley’s surprise, Aziraphale’s face started to tinge pink. This was surprising both because he didn’t know what Aziraphale was embarrassed about, and because he didn’t realize the angel had taken on the human habit of blushing at embarrassing things. “Well,” said Aziraphale, picking one up seemingly at random and flipping through it. “I do have other denominations’ books and liturgy of course--but I rather particularly wanted to keep track of the Methodists, for some reason. I suppose I felt, er, responsible. In a way.”

“Responsible? For a global denomination?” asked Crowley, picking up the slim volume and opening it to a random page. It appeared to be a transcript of a journal--John Wesley’s journal, that was. The founder of Methodism. Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale had caught all the details of every split and schism of different denominations after the years--honestly, after that Jesus guy had been and gone and then maybe been again, it had gotten exponentially harder to keep track. But, after all, founders of religious orders tended to be people around whom religious things happened, and Crowley and Aziraphale couldn’t quite help keeping track of those things. Luther hadn’t actually nailed his _Theses_ to any door, but Crowley had felt their first publication almost with the force of a hammer blow.

“‘I went very unwillingly to a society in Aldersgate Street,’” Crowley read aloud. His voice turned slightly mocking without, apparently, any input from his brain. “‘While he was describing the change which God works in the heart through faith in Christ, I felt my heart strangely warmed…’ Oh, Aziraphale,” he said suddenly, looking up. “You didn’t.”

Aziraphale, now definitely more red than pink, was apparently studying the Book of Discipline in front of him with such attention that he couldn’t hear what Crowley was saying. This was, in fact, how Aziraphale often was when he read, but since he wasn’t turning any pages, it seemed unlikely this time. “ _Aziraphale_ ,” Crowley repeated. “You did, didn’t you?”

“The poor man was awfully depressed,” Aziraphale said with dignity, giving up on the Book of Discipline. “I just wanted to cheer him a little--let him know he had the right idea. That’s all.”

“And he went and founded a religion,” said Crowley. “Well, a denomination, anyway.”

“Him and his brother,” Aziraphale reminded him. “I had nothing to do with Charles Wesley’s ‘conversion,’ although I did feel that it left his brother a bit, well, left out.”

To his absolute horror, Crowley felt his own face starting to heat up. What was _wrong_ with them both? He, at least, should be able to control his own blood flow better. “I, er,” he said, and then snapped his mouth shut. Unfortunately, Aziraphale, for all his apparent unawareness, had had 6,000 years, on and off, to interpret Crowley’s silences.

“Crowley,” he said delightedly. “Was that you? Did you do it on purpose?”

“Ngk,” said Crowley.

**Author's Note:**

> Charles Wesley, hymn writer extraordinaire and one of the founders of Methodism, experienced some sort of "conversion" (he was already a religious leader) on 21 May, 1738. Three days later, his brother John Wesley, who is generally considered the actual founder of Methodism, went to a meeting at Aldersgate, and afterwards wrote in his journal "I felt my heart strangely warmed." Not long after, they split from the Anglican Church and ended up founding their own denomination (for a variety of reasons, but you aren't here for a Methodist history lesson). I am probably going to write chapters showing what exactly happened in 1738, too, because that's the kind of person I am.
> 
> Apologies if anyone's religious or atheist sensitivities were offended by the fic or the implication behind it. I have many ties to the United Methodist Church (though I'm not a fan of the UMC's failure so far to affirm LGBT+ people) but I didn't write this with any religious or blasphemous ideas in mind, just a funny "What if."


End file.
